Black Christmas
by Noblerat
Summary: This story is about the real musketeers, the main character is Athos (real life Armand de Sillegue d'Athos d'Autevielle) who was born in 1615 or 1616 and was killed in a duel at the age of 28.


This story is about the real musketeers, the main character is Athos (real life Armand de Sillegue d'Athos d'Autevielle) who was born in 1615 or 1616 and was killed in a duel at the age of 28.

Now let's get to the story.

* * *

It was a misty, cold morning on the 21st day of December, 1643. Three men, wrapped in cloak were riding towards Pré Aux Clercs in silence. On their hats big feathers were waving as the horses slowly cantered on the road, under the black, leafless trees. The very first of the three looked the most calm. His beautiful, shining blue eyes, as blue as the sky, was looking directly in front of himself. He knew something bad was coming, but couldn't understand what. He had never had any problems with duels. Now, what is it that bothers him? This was the question he asked from himself. His black horse was calm as well. The young man swinged his pointing finger on his thin moustache. This young fellow was Armand d'Athos, the oldest of the four friends.

Behind him, the two others, his seconds were whispering. One of them was so big and so muscled like Hercules in the Greek mythology, the other one was a short, very young lad, almost a child, but he had such cunning eyes as a fox. I hope you have already guessed who they are, but if you haven't, let me tell you. The former one was Isaac de Porthau alias Porthos, the latter was Charles de Batz de Castelmore, Comte of D'Artagnan.

-I know that man, Porthos- whispered D'Artagnan.- He is really awful with sword.

-Are you sure?- asked Porthos in a low tone.- I have a bad feeling.

-Oh, come on! Our Athos is the best fencer in France, I think even in Europe!

-If you say so, my friend- Porthos nodded.- Look, we're here!

And that was true. They arrived to the forest of Pré Aux Clercs. The opponent of Athos and his seconds were already there. That man was in his early thirties, and didn't look very fit, to be honest, he had some fat on his body. But his shoulders were wide, and looked confident enough to make Porthos grab onto D'Artagnan's hand.

-Stop him, I beg you- he whispered.- If anything happens to him, I will never forgive myself!

-Calm yourself!- said the Gascon firmly.- I've told you that this pig is not good at fencing! There's no way he could beat Athos. And by the way, you know how thick-headed he is. And that how much the honour means to him. He wouldn't apologize just because you don't want him to do this.

-True...- sighed the big man.

The duel, after some important discussions, began. Athos was calm like any other times. But now his opponent was just as calm as him. He tried to make the musketeer attack, waited for a careless movement that could show a weak spot. It was clearly a tie. For two minutes. Then Athos finally leapt forward, stretching out his rapier. He was aiming for the fat man's heart.

But the grass was frozen. The young man's boot slid to the side, making him lose balance. He was managed to stay standing, but he didn't pay attention to his enemy for a second. And that second was the end of the duel, because the man thrusted forward, straight into the musketeer's chest.

Athos's eyes widened, he let out a quiet sigh, and looked down. He saw the blood flowing out of his wound, saw the sword. His opponent pulled the weapon out of him. The young count collapsed to the cold ground. His seconds, his friends ran to his side, Porthos teared a streak from his cloak and started to bandage the blooding wound. Athos winced in pain, and grabbed onto D'Artagnan's hand.

-I'm here, my friend- said the youngest of them, however he was fighting against his tears.

-I know- answered Athos quietly in a weak tone.- Listen to me, Charles! No matter what anyone says, no matter how defeated you are, nor how lonely you feel...- hard coughing stopped him from saying what he wanted, blood splashed out from his mouth.

-No!- cried Charles.- Don't speak! Don't bid me farewell! You will live, Armand!

-I won't- whispered the young man taking Porthos's hand in his as well.- Listen to me, my friends...- he stopped for a moment, closed his eyes. The two friends thought that this is the end and started sobbing, but then Armand opened his eyes.- I know, it's hard... But let me go. We are the four musketeers. The four inseparables!... And death cannot take away one of us from the others. I'll be with you. Always.

He coughed again, making new marks of blood on his doublet.

-Remember me...- whispered he closing his eyes.- Au revoir!

Porthos and D'Artagnan stared at the pale, smiling face. Holding his hands, they could feel how the life slips away from that strong body they always loved. They looked into each other's eyes, then embraced the corpse of their dear friend with uncontrollable sobbing.

* * *

They planned to spend the Christmas together at his house. They planned to have a nice dinner. They even bought the presents for each other.

Now they stood in his house. Aramis was praying for his immortal soul, Porthos was silently sobbing in a corner, D'Artagnan with deep sighs was sitting at his table, staring into the light of the only candle in the room. Then, something that he could not explain made him to look at the bookshelf. There were some old books, of course, but between two of them he could see something white, like a letter.

He stood up, started walking, as if he was too bored of sitting in one place. As he passed by the shelf, he could see that it was really a letter, and on it was _"D'Artagnan"_ in Armand's beautiful handwriting.

-Look at this!- shouted the young man, quickly opened the envelope, and started to read the letter at the light of the candle.

 _My dear friends, because I'm sure that D'Artagnan won't read it alone,_

 _I have this strange feeling, that scares me. We are soldiers, we know what it means to face death, but now I am afraid of it. Not exactly of death itself. But of losing you. It is almost Christmas. I am so sorry for ruining every plan of us, but this was how God wanted it to happen. Yes, I knew I had to die. This is why I wrote this letter. I assure you, my dear brothers that I will be with you to guide you and protect you._

D'Artagnan stopped, because he sobbed so hard that he couldn't read. But after a short moment he continued.

 _I didn't forget your presents. You can find them in the bottom of my wardrobe in the bedroom. In each box I wrote something only for the person whom I wanted to give it. I will always love you and never leave._

 _Armand de Sillegue d'Athos d'Autevielle_

-P... presents?- stammered Aramis.

-Yes- D'Artagnan nodded.- I think we should look for them.

-I'm not quite in the mood to play games- murmured Porthos, but Aramis's look made him stand up.- But if it was his wish, we must do it.

-Come, Henri, I found it!- shouted the young Gascon who has already entered the bedroom and opened the wardrobe. Aramis, who was also called Henri d'Aramitz, rushed to his side and helped him to pull out a chest. The key of it lied on the bedside table of his, so they could open it fast.

There were three purses in it. Each one of them had the correct name on it. One of them was Aramis's, the other was Porthos's and there was one for D'Artagnan. They all opened their gifts quickly, eager to see what is in there. Henri got a beautiful quill with one sentence next to it: _Never stop dreaming, fighting and loving._

Porthos got his friend's favourite playing cards and dices. His sentence was: _May they bring you more luck than they brought to me._

D'Artagnan was afraid of looking into the purse. But he did. He didn't know why, but he did look into it. And there he found Athos's ring. The gold ring with a beautiful sapphire stone in it. Armand once told him that this was his family's ring. A real relic. He said that it was his grand-grandfather's and then his grandfather's and then his father's and then his. He also told his young friend that his father once told him that he should have given it to his son one day. With this thought passing in his mind, D'Artagnan, crying again, rose the ring to his lips and kissed it with passion.

There was no sentence in the purse, not a single word. And then the young lad looked again at the ring, just to realize that into its inner side were two words engraved: _My son_.

The three friends looked up into the dark, starry skies with tearful eyes, and they all could feel how a little breeze starts caressing their cheeks through the opened window. The breeze was warm, like a hand, and as they watched the sky, a shooting star shined up.


End file.
